The Haunting of Autumn Lake (2 page)

And then she heard it—the low rumble approaching at her back. Someone was on the road! Fear gripped her, and she quickened her step again. Closer! It was drawing closer! Yet the fearful beating of her heart was ringing so loudly in her ears that she could not discern whether it was a lone rider approaching or a wagon, carriage, or some other conveyance.

Panic overtook Autumn then, and she began to run—run for the sunshine beckoning at the end of the bridge before her—run for safety, before Irving’s headless horseman was upon her and lopping off her head! She knew she could run faster if she were to abandon her sketchbook—to drop it and return to retrieve it later. Yet her sketches of Jethro were inside—the sketches she planned to use to assist her in painting Jethro’s portrait as her Christmas gift to her mother. She could not abandon it! She would not! And so she ran—Autumn Lake ran as fast as she could. And even when she heard hooves begin across the bridge behind her—even as she reminded herself that neither Irving’s headless horseman nor the Specter had ever been seen during the day—she still ran.

It was not until she’d left the bridge—not until sunlight rinsed her with warmth and relief—that Autumn Lake turned to see whether it was a man with no head or the Specter who was pursing her.

At the sight of the familiar team of horses and wagon that had followed her out of the bridge, Autumn sighed—then giggled.

“Daddy!” she scolded her father as he smiled at her. “You scared the waddin’ out of me!”

Her father chuckled as he pulled the team to a stop. Autumn’s soul was instantly warmed by the sight of the crow’s-feet wrinkles at the corners of his stormy-colored eyes.

“Did I?” her father asked. “Well, I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I thought the Specter was comin’ up behind me,” Autumn exclaimed as she climbed up the wagon wheel to sit next to her father on the seat. “Or at least that the headless horseman was comin’ for my head!”

Her father laughed, and she kissed his cheek, inhaling the comforting aroma of shaving soap, leather gloves, horsehair, and saddles. It was the scent of her father, and Autumn was instantly soothed.

“And where have you been, honey?” her father asked as she linked one arm through his, snuggling against his broad shoulder. He slapped the lines at the team’s back, and the wagon lurched forward.

“I’ve been workin’ on my Christmas gift for Mama,” she answered.

Her father chuckled again. “Still sketchin’ Jethro, huh?”

“Of course! I want to capture every essence of him if I’m gonna paint him well. You know how seriously I take my paintin’s, Daddy,” Autumn reminded her father.

“Oh, I do indeed. I do indeed.” She felt him kiss the top of her head and snuggled closer to him.

“And where have you been?” she asked in return.

“Oh, just into town. Took some apples over to your aunt and uncle, picked up some sugar and spices for your mama…just things like that,” her father answered with a sigh that revealed his fatigue. Her father worked hard, and the large, solid muscles in his arms were one evidence of it.

Autumn sighed—smiled as mischief began to bounce around in her head. “And did you leave a wave of swoonin’ females in your wake, Daddy?” she teased.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Autumn,” her father gently scolded. “Don’t you start in on me too. I woulda thought you and your mother woulda been tired of that old joke by now. I swear, every dang time I go to town…one or the other of you just has to—”

“But it’s true, Daddy,” Autumn interrupted. She lifted her head to look at her father. “I’ve seen it myself.”

“Oh, you have not,” he grumbled.

Autumn’s smile broadened. She knew her father still wasn’t comfortable with the fact that he was the handsomest man any woman had ever laid eyes on. He still couldn’t see it—his own allure and attractiveness—even though every woman in the world could, especially her mother. She studied his hair. It had once been raven like her own but now boasted beautiful white at his temples and salt-and-pepper everywhere else. His jaw was strong and square with a slight cleft in his chin. His cheekbones showed strength, and the set of his lips was perfect. The powerful, sculpted musculature of his shoulders, arms, and chest could not be hidden beneath his shirt. Thus, all in all, Autumn easily believed her mother when she professed that there wasn’t a better looking man walking the face of the earth.

Autumn kissed her index finger and placed it at the wrinkles at the outer corner of her father’s eye. “I love you, Daddy,” she began, “even if you can’t admit women adore you. Why, just last week Mama said she saw ol’ Belva Johnson lickin’ the drool from her lips after you passed by.”

Chapter Two

Ransom Lake shook his head, amused by his daughter’s flattery—deeply moved by her admiration and love. He loved Cole, Sawyer, and Price, his sons. He loved them more than life itself. They gave him strength, motivation, and manly companionship. But his daughter, Autumn? Somehow Ransom’s little girl tenderized his heart something awful—reduced him to a mushy, sentimental pulp. Yep, although she didn’t know it, Autumn had her daddy wrapped around her little finger almost as tightly as her mother had him wrapped around hers. How he loved his little girl, and how he worried for her. Autumn was so much her mother—sweet, kindhearted, a daydreamer, and the most compassionate soul he’d ever encountered—and Ransom worried nearly constantly about her, wondered what would happen to his baby girl to scar her. And he knew she would be scarred. Everyone owned scars—if not physical ones, then emotional ones—scars that branded the heart and soul. But scars were part of life, and Ransom could only hope that Autumn’s scars would not be caused by deep, emotional wounds. Both Ransom and his beautiful, loving wife, Vaden, carried vivid scars on their hearts. Ransom prayed his daughter’s would not be so deep as theirs.

A vision of what his beloved Vaden had endured when she was just Autumn’s age flashed into his mind. Anger still welled up in his chest when he thought of it—or every dang time he passed Nathaniel Wimber or Toby Bridges on the streets of town. Part of him was glad Randy Lange had been killed in a wagon accident; it was probably the only way Ransom had managed to swallow the fact that Cole had married Randy’s daughter, Ava. Ava was an angel like her mother, and Ransom was thankful for it. As for Frank Hodges—he’d left town long ago. His family had moved away shortly after Jerome Clayton went to the lunatic asylum—and again Ransom was glad of it.

He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead as he tried to push the memory from his conscious thoughts—as he looked to his beautiful daughter, knowing some boy would probably break her heart soon enough, one way or the other. Oh, how glad he was in that moment that he hadn’t been the one to break Vaden’s heart—that she’d loved him, accepted him, still loved him and doted over him as if there hadn’t been twenty-five years between the day they’d met and the moment he was living in.

Still, the thought of his little girl enduring anything like what a man could do to a woman’s tender heart caused him to wince with internal, emotive pain. He’d rather die than see Autumn go through anything so awful as heartache and pain. Still, Vaden kept telling him it was part of life—that she and Ransom could protect their daughter only so much—but in the end, life gave people experience, experience to help them grow strong in order to withstand the storms of life.

Vaden was as wise as she was beautiful—and as amusing. He thought of Autumn’s gift to her mother—the portrait of Jethro she’d been working on for so long already. He knew darn well Vaden would melt into a puddle of tears when she unwrapped it Christmas morning.

Ransom inadvertently chuckled at the thought of what would transpire when Autumn unveiled her gift to her mother, and Autumn asked, “What’s so funny, Daddy?”

Autumn watched her father shrug his broad, strong shoulders. Oh, she was his daughter, sure enough, but even she could see why everyone still called her daddy Handsome Ransom.

Autumn giggled. Oh, how she loved the romance between her mother and father! She’d never seen another one like it—not ever! Even when a new young couple married up in town, it was never so romantic a kiss at the altar as her father and mother shared several times a day! It was her greatest wish—to have a love like the love Ransom and Vaden Lake had. Autumn knew it was rare—the perpetually romantic love her parents owned—but she still hoped God would see his way clear to bless her with such a gift.

Still, she doubted there were any man on earth that could rival not only her father’s good looks but his profound strength of character and body. She couldn’t imagine there was a man walking around anywhere that was so heroic as her father was—so filled with integrity, pure power, and goodness. Even if there were a man who might attempt to match her father, chances were Autumn would never meet him. And even if she did, Autumn was
not
Vaden Lake! She didn’t have her mother’s strength and endurance.

In that moment she recalled the story of how the crazy old Jerome Clayton hired some boys in town to bury her mother alive when she’d been just Autumn’s own age. At the thought, goose pimples of horror and fear broke over her arms—an empathetic sensation of nausea rolled in her stomach. Autumn didn’t know how her mother had survived the terror she must have experienced!

Autumn pushed the thought from her mind and looked up to her father once more. She always felt safer, stronger, and well protected when she looked at her father—when she was with him as she was now. Autumn Lake knew no harm could ever befall her as long as her own daddy, Handsome Ransom, was near. Nope—there would never be another man born that could even attempt to be the man her father was.

Thus Autumn knew she would have to settle for less—even though her mother constantly assured her she would not. Everyone had pressed her mother to settle for less when she was Autumn’s age—tried to convince her to settle for that crazy Jerome Clayton—and look what had happened! Jerome Clayton had tried to kill Autumn’s father and then her mother. And then he’d ended up in the lunatic asylum! So it was that Autumn’s mother, Vaden Lake, was ever reminding her not to settle for less than the man she dreamt of.

“And what are
you
thinkin’ about, sugar?” Ransom asked with a knowing grin.

“Oh, nothin’,” Autumn fibbed. “I’m just so glad we own the pumpkin patch, Daddy. It’s my favorite place in all the world! I’m already missin’ this year’s crop, and it’s not even time to harvest it yet!”

Her father laughed. “You’re so much like your mother, Autumn.” He winked at her and added, “And I’m so glad.”

“Me too,” Autumn said, snuggling up against her father’s strong arm once more.

She was glad that Ransom Lake had managed to purchase the vast pumpkin fields that had once belonged to a man named Vaughn Wimber. Mr. Wimber had passed away nearly ten years before, and Ransom had purchased the fields from Mr. Wimber’s wife—as an anniversary gift to Autumn’s mother.

The pumpkin fields, combined with the apple and pear orchards the Lakes already owned, kept the family in a comfortable state. But more than that, it allowed Autumn to wander among her favorite places—orchards and pumpkin fields.

She loved the scent of the ripened apples and pears—loved the way it perfumed the air as it did now. She could smell them—the sweet, crisp scent of ripened fruit. No doubt Autumn’s mother would have something warm and apple-sweet baked as a treat for Ransom and Autumn after supper.

Autumn sighed. Home! There was no place like it. In that moment, she almost decided that it would be okay if her dream-lover never appeared, for she could not imagine leaving her home—could not imagine a house that didn’t smell of apples, nutmeg, and cinnamon. She couldn’t imagine a front porch that was not piled high with pumpkins and cornstalks in October and November. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her mother and father standing before the hearth, a crackling fire lighting the night, as they shared such kisses. No doubt Ransom and Vaden Lake would be mortified if they knew how often their daughter crept downstairs to peek around the corner into the parlor and watch her father make love to her mother by kissing her as she was sure no other man had ever kissed a woman—particularly his wife.

And so, in those moments, Autumn was content, for there was no man like her father, and she would miss her parents and her home if a miracle ever produced one.

Ransom’s heartbeat began to increase as he pulled the wagon to a halt in front of the house. Vaden was inside; he could feel her very essence radiating through the walls and out into the early autumn air. It was astounding—the way she still made his heart race, made his mouth water, made him never want to leave home again.

“Run on in and tell your mama I’ll be there directly,” he told Autumn as he watched her leap down from the wagon. Oh, he knew the way his daughter leapt down wasn’t the way a lady should disembark from a conveyance, but he figured Autumn would have plenty of years to be stifled by propriety, so he didn’t say a word. “I’ll unhitch the team and get ’em fed. You can brush down later, all right?”

“All right, Daddy,” Autumn said as she hurried toward the house.